


Convergence

by Lualie



Series: A new AU-rizon, Get it? Horizon? AU?... [1]
Category: Batman (Comics), Batman - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Dance, How Do I Tag This, M/M, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-07-12
Updated: 2017-10-30
Packaged: 2018-12-01 04:27:00
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 14,104
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11478585
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lualie/pseuds/Lualie
Summary: Nygma rarely compliments anyone in his articles, but the one time he does, it isn't as welcomed as he expected it to be.





	1. Retrograde

**Author's Note:**

> So this au was a prompt originally written by [Dicktigers here on tumblr.](https://dicktigers.tumblr.com/post/162750812972/dicktigers-au-where-instead-of-becoming-a-super) I've been thinking of it for a while and came up with something.... Success??? You tell me. 
> 
> I rarely write aus but I'm glad this is helping me get back on tracks.

Gotham city was fortunate enough to have accumulated several generous benefactors over the last decades. Sponsoring diverse projects and encouraging the development of culture in its various forms. 

Some rich and famous names might come to mind, for those who cared. The reality being that as long as people were entertained, they tended to ask very little about where the funds came from, and more about the very shiny signs announcing the shows on popular venues. 

It wasn’t unusual for many shows to be performed through the several theaters and stages of the city. But tonight, and for the next months to come, Jonathan and his new company were performing in an admittedly more modest one. One of these... older establishments. Ones that couldn’t quite fit as many spectators as the Grand Theater of Gotham, but its fading glory still held an aura of authenticity and… dare he say _mysticism_ , that modern stages couldn’t recreate.

It felt comforting, and a little humbling. 

Besides, funds, sponsors and whatnot, Contemporary ballet was an everlasting style in development, hence its name. It was an acquired taste as well, and required a lot of observation to catch all its nuances, but said subtleties needed to be conveyed properly to be felt. These two factors made rather difficult to make any significant progress as far as the techniques were concerned. People wanted easy entertainments. To be amazed, to be held in a moment and carried through time and space-…. 

There was a few knocks on the door. He said nothing until a second series of them drummed sharply. He stopped staring at his reflection and finally complied. “Come in, Harley.” 

A blonde head practically popped from behind the door, a devilish smile and twinkles in her eyes. ”Just checking in to see if you’re all set. The show starts in 30 minutes and we’ll spray-paint the people who tries to get in after that!”

“You shouldn’t spray-paint the guests, Harley. That’s some other show’s gimmick already.”

“That’s what Red says, but where’s the fun in not threatening rude patrons with the fear of ruining their nice suits?”

Jon gave her a look, and turned back to the mirror. “Where indeed, although for greater effect I’d recommend telling them they might be hustled onto the stage for the group choreography if they try to leave.” His lips were tugging slightly upward, though he felt compelled to remain serious. “You’re trying to ease some of my tension, aren’t you?” it wasn’t an accusation as much as an ironic remark. She pushed expertly her flashy red glasses further up her nose.

“Maybe. Is it working?”

“Like a charm.”

She posed triumphantly in a single motion, fully opening the door for dramatic effect. Jon would roll his eyes, had it been anyone else. “Come back later when the number before mine starts. I’ll…. psych up, as we’ve discussed.”

She nodded and grabbed the door handle. “… Need me to turn off the light?”

Again, his lips tugged. A quick scan of the various items on his vanity proved that everything was set. “That would be appreciated, thank you.”

The switch was turned off, and the door, closed. He heard the distant chatter of the nearby dancers and the pitter-patter of her lucky shoes.

A tall, gangly man was sitting in the dark, the bulbs of the vanity lighting ominously the sharpness of his shape. And with slow, meticulous care, he began his preparations.

* * * * * *

If anything could describe Gothamites best, it would be their simultaneous appeal for modernism and their compulsive urge to return to the aesthetics of the noir movie genre….. Leaving it perpetually locked in a neo and retro phase that was now festering over 80% of the structures in the city and some of its unfortunate newer suburbs. And those were rather unnerving suburbs.

Edward Nygma, undoubtedly the most advisable cultural critic in the city and beyond, found it incredibly redundant, and morose. Repetitive, predictable.

But he had to admit, there was just this inexplicable charm to Gotham that slowly swallowed you whole and made you run its maze willingly in the dark of the night. It grew on you, and left you with a taste that moving anywhere else, brighter or warmer, would just feel deeply wrong. 

Oh but its people. Redundant and morose sadly applied to them as well. Truly a similar case as the new European bourgeoisie in the beginning of the XXe century. Fools who knew nothing of the arts but attended shows because it felt prestigious to do so, understanding be damned. Interest be damned. 

How baffling was it that you had all this available access to arts and knowledge and somehow only notice how flashy and brights the lights were, and nothing of the direction lines and precision. Trying to have any sort of intellectual conversation with most everyone felt unsatisfactory and they’ll tell you the most obvious details of a performance without noticing the deeply profound details or excruciating flaws. They fell for the easiest tricks, who were admittedly sometimes brilliant if you actually knew they WERE tricks but that was still incredibly debilitating when you were in the known. 

Of course, Edward Nygma knew better.

And in his generous benevolence, he wrote fervently about it, which made him one of the best critics on this side of the country.

The fact that he received both gifts or threats via his carefully sorted fan mail only told him he was making a good deed to the average citizen.

He was fairly informed about all the shows of any relevance and tonight was no exceptions. Although contemporary ballet was not his favored form of art, his career as a ‘retired’ classical ballet dancer and his incredible memory enabled him to know basically everything about its properties. 

But tonight, he had been personally invited by one of the company’s manager, An old friend, Ms. Quinzel, to assist the premiere of their new series of weekly productions. It was, somewhat of a loose interpretive project, mostly in preparation for their bigger event in a couple of months. 

The company was composed of a few dancers from in and outside of Gotham. One in particular, they barely managed to recruit, or so he had heard...

“and why is that?” he asked her on the phone, twirling a green pen in his hand.

“Oh we were from the same Uni program, remember that disastrous psychology-dance fusion from a few years back? He was one of the first in it before it was shut down. He’s... pretty obscure, but I’ve seen what he can do and he’s been moving from company to company for the past couple of years, so it was kinda hard to convince him to come back to Gotham. He’s from Georgia I think, but that’s all I’m gonna say since I know you like to see the artists first before doing your researches.” The wink was almost audible. 

... Admittedly, that had piqued his curiosity He almost urged her for more information.

However she was right. He preferred to see the performance beforehand, as to not cloud his judgement.

And here he was, in this old-fashioned theater, rambling the wait away. His friend Selina had graciously accepted to join him, as she was a passionate dancer of her own, and endlessly insightful in the matter.

Their pleasant chatting ended much too soon, as the lights dimmed in the soft warmth only older establishments could provide, and all of Edward’s focus locked onto the stage.

* * * * * * * *

“Ok so, Leone’s on stage right now, that means we’re two numbers away, right?”

“Yeah and before us it’s hm…. What’s his name again?”

“Crane, the tall fella who was in Opal City last year. Worked with some guy named Swift I heard”

“Oh yeah, I heard about that! Weird show-.”

Someone with a headset popped from a closed door, eyes and smile unnervingly threatening. “If I can hear you guys, the whole backstage can too! You move somewhere else to talk or you get on standby ASAP!”

The chatty bunch moved quickly, as Harley huffed and inhaled broadly. She was on her way to go get Jon, and rose her hand to do her signature knocking on the door, when it opened on its own. The room dark and dramatic, with lights flooding inside and over an eerie silhouette holding the door.

“Shucks Jon you gotta show me how you did that,” she said in awe after a while, trying to calm her thrilled heartbeat, “Your turn is up, by the way. Five minutes Standby, come on let’s go!” she urged him along and he followed her, his mind already on the stage.

* * * * * *

Stage fright was a fascinating phenomena.

Some have it regardless of situations. Some have it only when they play alone on a stage, finding it much easier with other participants on their sides. Some have it the other way around, only finding pressure in crowded sets...

But there was just something so emetic, so vulnerable and purgative about dancing.

For Jon at least, and so he had spent many years working to refine his mastery of it.

And how all of it could hold onto the palm of his hands. Their eyes, their hearts, the air they breathe…

Survive to control. Control to survive.

It was dancing over the edge of a great fall, with the lights blinding and an eternity of power and soul in your chest.

Someone had told him once, his performances were a style nobody could really pull off or puzzle out.

And he agreed with the sentiment.

Nobody could understand fear, but Fear himself.

And what else could compel him more, but the fright of a performance and the terror it filled him with.

* * * * * *

There was a thunder of applause after each numbers afterward, but Edward didn’t seemed to hear none of them. And as the producers and managers of the show came last onto the stage to invite the patrons for next week’s performance, 'same place same time', he felt the touch of a hand over his arm.

“Edward darling, your face is going to stay like that if you keep frowning so hard,” She teased. He seemed visibly unsettled.

It took him 2 seconds too long to answer. “Marvelous...” His words were baffled, his face positively awe-strucked.

It took her a moment as well, but still attempted a wild guess. “The tall man with the crooked nose?”

“ _The tall man with a crooked-!_ Oh truly my dear, you are disappointing me.”

She tilted her head warily. “What did you see, Edward?”

He frowned again until he understood the true nature of her inquiry, which he brushed off with impatience. “No, that man. I’ve- I don’t think I’ve seen anything as marvelous, as elegant and memorable as his number since the time I was still on stage!”

“Glad to hear,” she replied, slightly wounded but mostly used to it.

“Selina now is not the time, I’m going to meet him, right now.” He rose to his feet with a single goal in mind. She, however, jammed her crossed leg more firmly in the front seat, casually blocking his path.

“Edward.”

“Selina.”

“I understand you got that whole shtick of yours to be done, but after a show is hardly the place-”

“What on Earth are you talking about? His placements were perfect! His influences are wild innovations! He practically haunted the stage and I-” He finally caught up with the ridicule of his situation, stared down at the elegant leg barring his way and turned around to march toward the other end of the row. His steps were quick enough to get him to the backstage in no time, and he began to look around for-

“Can I help you sir?” One headset crew asked him, eyeing him evenly.

“Yes, I’m searching for this mister Crane-”

“Oh he left already. You just missed him.”

A door swung open with a brightly dressed Harleen Quinzel, talking over her shoulder. “Jon wait for us I just gotta chat with Marv-” She stopped short, processing who was in front of her, dots visibly connecting in her expression. “ -You came!"

“I did! I know I’ll tell you all about it, just give me a second-” he practically slid past her. Harley spun on herself in a cartoony way for comical effect.

A few steps further and here was the man of the hour. If he stared, he did not take notice of it. “You!”

The man said nothing, but frowned severely. 

“I’m so glad I caught you, my friend. You have no _idea_ how fulfilling your act was, how marvelous! The lines, the drive- I’m not a man of contemporary ballet myself, but this was beyond words!”

“Much obliged,” he mumbled. Edward was too lost to pick on the cold and sharper demeanor the man had. How his eyes would cut him to pieces if it made him go away.

“And you’re welcomed! Truly I don’t think I’ve been so impressed by anyone before-”

“I’m sure a chat would be nice, sir, but you are not welcomed here.” 

“Don’t be absurd, you’re not the ONLY one I came to see here tonight,” he huffed. 

He was starting to lose his footings, but the _coup de grace_ must had been when those pale thin lips stretched into one cruel line. Only then did he notice just how, unnervingly sharp his pale eyes were on him. 

“And why should I care about the opinion of a generic, self-proclaimed fool of importance who wears a tacky green three-piece suit in the summer?” 

This wasn’t any unusual things Edward hadn't heard in the past. But he couldn’t help feeling taken aback, especially to hear it coming from this... Unnerving man.

The whole venture seemed rather foolish, in retrospective.

The silence stretched, and Crane tilted his head, as if to feast on the speechless wreck he’d become. “Now if you’ll excuse me, I have important things to do” he said softly, but loud enough for the whole room to hear. Only then did Edward realized that they had been the center of the attention, as there had been other people in the room, staring in bewilderment.

They seemed to know who Edward was, but Jon gave no such thing as a clue of reminiscence. Instead, he eerily moved to pick a bottle from an ice bucket and walked out as if he had never been there in the first place.

* * * * * *

Edward wasn’t sure how he found his way out of the theater, but he suspected Selina had kindly waited for him, or did some investigation of her own to pick up the pieces. 

“Who does he think he is!”

“I told you not to go in there, didn’t I?”

“But I never go congratulate anyone like this and have it just, _thrown back_ in my face like that? What kind of rude, careless person would practically brush me off like I wasn’t the best ally any artist could have in this city!”

“You didn’t write anything about him, did you?”

“Of course not, I would remember such a name.”

She observed him a while longer, her words curious. “He really got to you, didn’t he?”

He glared at her. She batted her beautiful eyes with a knowing smile.

And now back home, Edward stared at the screen, frowning deeply.

Time to get to work.

And work he did diligently, as per his usual dedication. The article was written and complete within the earliest hours, and properly fact-checked by dawn.

It felt strange, the more he tried to avoid writing about the tall man, the more he wrote about him.

He prided himself to be nothing but exact in his reviews.

And as he had finally finished his research, it unnerved him just how little information he had actually gathered about the man himself.

He opened a new tab, and started reading all over again.

What a strange, peculiar man.


	2. Keep in mind

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jon isn't sure how to feel about his new stubborn fan. It would be a lot easier, if it hadn't been him.

Jonathan Crane was having, well, another day.

Of course, he woke and did all those daily things like every day, counting them by the average amount of pages he’d read and the helpful, if sonorous, reminders from his birds that it was due time for their lunches, and his. 

Sometimes, in-between practices, he would walk a bit in the neighborhood parks, or sit in a café and order something. Jon preferred his free time alone, but since his feat from the night of the Premiere, some of the other dancers had begun to warm up to him. He didn’t need them but sometimes, an interesting topic would come up and they would listen. He could feel the moment where he held their focus, and after a while, when the spell faded away. As such chatting was meant to be with colleagues. 

It was rather nostalgic of his teaching days, in a way. But these people were his peers, not his students. And the familiarity of a group tended to proceed that way. 

Dancers and actors, traveling performers, and such, had usually very little time to know each others, Most the time, they were strangers coming from near and far. As such, it was a necessary skill to develop the almost uncanny capacity of forming strong bonds in a nick of time.

Or perhaps just uncanny to the general asocial individuals, like himself.

Being a performing artist could change people in a way no one could really think possible. And that in itself, was a fascinating phenomenon. 

The eerily tall man was, regardless, more comfortable with his quietude but still, he allowed himself the familiarity while it lasted. 

They didn’t need to know what he was, between the blurs and the blinds.

And today, Jon was just having another day, but this one had a show at the end of it. Hence he had to go to the practice studio early.

A few floors higher, an old duffel bag under his arm, Jon had been about to walk past the threshold when a few dancers were on their way out. Jon’s attention caught a few fleeting glares as most of them moved downward, one or two patting him enthusiastically as they passed him.

Something had happened, and he was soon going to find out what.

He didn’t need to look far, as he saw Pamela and Harleen whispering by the control panel of the audio system. They both raised their heads as he dropped nonchalantly his bag on the side bench. Harley had her million dollar smile in an instant. Pamela, akin to the other dancers from earlier, had something hard in her expression, and returned his cautiously observing gaze.

“Jon! Good timing, check this out.” She waved a magazine that went flopping slightly as she moved it. 

“I assume you two have been on the lookout for the reviews of the Premiere? I haven’t bothered looking myself, so far,” And by ‘so far’ he meant he wasn’t planning to any time soon.

Pamela spoke, her voice firm and factual. “We’ve seen mostly mixed reviews so far. It wasn’t a big room, so we didn’t make a lot of noise, but there’s been..... One we did not... anticipate.” She was visibly toning down some of her frustration, or something of the same vein. 

Harley handed him the magazine on the right page.

“You really want me to read this?” Jonathan’s pale blue eyes were quietly hidden behind the reflected light on his reading glasses, but one inquisitive brow expressed the questionability of the request.

Pamela rolled her eyes and side-glanced at Harley, who urged him to do so.

_Last Saturday night at the-_

“NO no no skip ahead!”

He lowered his eyes in the middle of a paragraph, his patience thinning. 

“Right-” and she almost climbed over the console to point at the page. “-There!!”

His brows were deeply furrowed as his eyes caught the first sentence and stared in complete surprise at the end of it.

_Boredom and repetitions aside, one number did, in fact, shook me off my enlightened wheels. As the daily news had failed to depict in detail, you notice Crane for his spectacularly crooked nose, and keep watching for his spectacularly graceful dancing-_

His eyes went to the top of the article.

_\- Edward E. Nygma -_

That son of a-

And back at the sentence, reading the rest of the paragraph, which took more than half of the page of the review, and then back at the beginning of it.

“... This explains the glares from earlier. He just called them a school of fish.”

“But he loved your number!”

“The man spends five minutes elaborating on how odd and graceful I look, how my eyes stole his breath away, and how revolutionary my style is.”

“But he never writes only positive stuff about performing artists, Jon! This is wonderful!”

“He’d lose his job if he did. I know people who describe borzois in a similar fashion.”

“But wasn’t that exactly the key components of your ‘theory’ put to practice? To control the crowd through their emotions? It seems like the worm has something other than disdain left in him that you could exploit.”

He looked at Pamela over his glasses, and took them off. “I see you did read my book.”

“Harley made me. Whatever it is you did, _professor_. It worked.”

“ I did not-” He inhaled, searching for an escape route “-... To be quite honest, I’m trying to correlate why he seems so focused on my nose.” He glanced at Harley, who was practically grinning ear to ear. “What would be your thoughts on that, Dr. Quinzel?”

She tried her best to keep her composure, with some degree of success, and pushed her glasses further up her nose. “Nothing you can’t deduce by yourself, Dr. Crane.”

He tried not to smirk, because now was definitively not the time for jokes, and quickly chastised whatever ironic thoughts had crossed his mind.

What the hell was he thinking.

* * * * * *

Later that night, after the show, the crew had moved to somewhere else to celebrate, as Jon simply headed home to tend to his feathered family. There were two of them, but today had been a long day and he did not wish for them to cause a ruckus of worries.

Jon had been particularly thoughtful since earlier when the girls showed him the article. As much as he had done his best to attack the man’s ego with indifference, he knew who Nygma was.

Heaven be damned, he knew only too well who that irritably presumptuous, foolish son of a gun was.

And perhaps his frustration at himself had fueled tonight’s performance a bit more than he could had predicted. 

He usually couldn’t feel his entire body for the next 20 minutes after his turns, but even now he felt numb. And bitter.

“ _When nightmares start to flock, then will the shadows walk,_ ” he crooned to himself.

His pet crow, Nightmare, actually perked at that. The corvid was growing old, but to Jon she only seems to puff her neck feathers more as the years passed by. She nicked his fingers softly to request petting.

“Look at you. You didn’t even want a scratch this morning since you were still busy eating.”

She seemed to blissfully ignore his remark and opened her wings to allow him more access.

This was the best distraction he could get until the tall man felt in control enough to analyze, for a dozenth time today at least, what he already knew of the man. And what might be the possible direction.

Shadows of old memories flew at the very back of his mind. Thoughts and intentions and -....

He pulled away and closed the cage quietly. Moving to the other part of his still unfamiliar home. A heavy but functional laptop sitting on the coffee table, which he turned on.

It might be too early to expect something worse to come, but if he was going to have to deal with Edward Nygma in the future, Jon might as well gather up information to arm himself with.

He already knew most of it, how much had changed in the past six years?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You guys got lucky I got the day off because next week is the Firework-week-Festival here and that means I'll probably won't have enough energy or time to write anything coherent. I'm gonna have to channel my inner Mercy at work again.
> 
> But quite honestly, the company-bonding-thing is a real and terrifyingly fascinating phenomenon and it mesmerizes me each time I get in a new production. It feels like when you play the sims and keep hugging people until you're BFFs. It's def not natural, but nobody wants to point it out because by god we're gonna make this show work, or die complimenting each others trying if we have to. 
> 
> In that sense, I felt like Jon would be use to feel very out of place, but curious to see to which extents people would go to befriend him.


	3. Mixed bag success

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's only been a month and Jon knows exactly who to blame for the 'ridiculous' amount of attention he's been getting.

Time and weeks went by, as they always did.

And as they did, things only got more obnoxious.

Since the very first critic that deemed him the new revolution in contemporary ballet was published, Jonathan only felt a growing aversion toward the unusual amount of attention he seemed to get from the Gotham’s media. Not only underground publications, but also bigger, brighter names now. It was unsettling, some of them barely making any sense, and he would be damned if he did not do his best to ignore any phone calls that started with a syrupy ‘hello mister Crane!’.

He always hung up on the spot. 

Although, Jonathan had begun to form a course of action to make the callers regret their attempts to initiate contact via phone by playing a few..... tricks on them. Nothing too bad, or too vile, perhaps he could indulge a bit since Halloween was coming soon.....

But, perhaps this idea was better left un-acted upon. It wouldn’t do any good to his treatment, and for how Nightmare seemed to stare at him from across the room when it seemed to cross his mind... perhaps it was for the better. Very reluctantly for the better.

Nonetheless, it was just a bunch of articles but... this was getting out of hand.

“They did, ‘what’?” each words a stern threat, articulated excessively. Almost daring her to repeat it one more time.

“They........ Called,” Harley said one more time, so taken aback by the menacing scold that she lost her initial enthusiasm. “They’d like an interview, Jon. Like it or not, those articles have been real’ good for the past few shows. Makes everyone step up their games too but, you? You practically steal the spotlight at this point!”

Just because it was true didn’t mean it sat well with Jonathan. He could only imagine Pamela felt the same.

“Preposterous,” he stated with venom, holding back a whole selection of colorful expressions that only grew more distilled each day.

“What do you mean, ‘preposterous’?” she argued, mimicking his posture and voice. “I know you’ve been grumpy for the past couple of weeks but-”

He stopped her before she went any further. “But I do not like being publicly mocked, Harleen. This is not the reason why I dance.”

“Ok then WHY do you dance, Jon!? Why don’t you tell them just that?”

He stayed quiet at her inquiries, putting effort into refraining a snarl of distastes.

“All this attention, child-”

“Jonathan fucking Crane, call me ‘child’ one more time in that tone and I’m going to come at your wobbly kneecaps and bust them myself.”

He blinked and raised a brow, but nonetheless continue. “All this attention, darling-” she swiftly motioned an ‘I’m watching you’ sign, but left him proceed. “-is only there because of these.... questionable articles. And except for the first one, all rambling fools at best. You can’t deny that this feels like a great machination to ridicule me and I’m not going to entertain an interview because of one phony critic with a wounded ego boasting a handful of followers into our seats.”

“..... Except the first one?” she repeated cockily, Jon’s expression went a little flatter, getting quite done with this nonsense. 

“... Listen Jon, I understand your reasoning and... that is fair, kinda trippy but fair I gotcha.” He rolled his eyes. She kept a careful eye on him. “...But how do you think anyone gets any kind of visibility in this industry? Did you expect to never be ‘discovered’? To literally remain a ballet cryptid for the rest of your days? Isn’t that the opposite of what you told me when I called you months ago?” 

The tall man said nothing. He knew she was right, and despised admitting it.

“.... Is alright if you don’t want to do an interview. Whatchu think I’m here for?” she winked, slipping in her old stage persona for greater effect. “We can write what you wanna disclose and I’ll be your spoke-lady, ‘darling’.”

Jonathan should roll his eyes. Should be profoundly exasperated at her playful jabs at his accent. And he was, by all means.

But in a greater sense, he felt..... Reluctantly thankful.

Doubtful, unsure, and....... reluctantly thankful.

Now he could simply focus on his aggravation at the bothersome redhead and royally ignore any more of his content, if it ever came up.

..... For as long as he could, at least.

* * * * * *

And long did not last long at all.

“You’ve got to be kidding me.”

The show had been running for almost a month now. To celebrate their growing fame, the company had managed to drag everyone out to one of the nearby restaurants. Including Jon, somehow. The older man had to be coaxed with plenty of convincing, and possibly someone trustworthy enough to go check on his birds, but ultimately agreed to tag along. 

Because hard work was worth celebrating. Being seated among people who could barely begin to understand ‘who you were’ was just a daily occurrence.

So perhaps it was a miracle that came to distract his ennui, or the worst possible thing that could ever happen in this social setting. 

And that miracle arrived with a horrendously green suit and matching cane, which only helped to make everyone’s heads turn as he came in, sporting the attitude of a man who owned the world.

Jon couldn’t help but to admit how it suited him, quite irritably so.

“Good evening, everyone of the Isley-Quinzel company!” he addressed to the glares and gasps, “Now now, before anyone starts questioning my presence here, it is my cordial pleasure to inform you all that tonight’s entire tab will be payed by none other than yours truly! Congratulation everyone!”

A hearty clamor rose from someone far in the back. It was followed by a roar of disbelieving cheers that filled the room with a buzzing energy.

The smiling man basked in the result of his simple, almost primitive act of peace. Nodding at the bartender as they both acknowledged the statement made. 

Jonathan could have attempted to find an exit. He could have simply walked out, party be damned. But he found himself staring straight at the man, who found his way through the crowd. To Jon, it almost seemed as if the crowd had parted to let him through.

“Is this seat taken?”

No it wasn’t. “Very.”

“A well, I’m sure they’ll find a better fitting spot somewhere else, wherever they might find themselves at the moment.” 

He moved to gracefully pull the chair for himself, only stopped by Jonathan’s striking stare as he pressed his elbows forward, hands folded under his chin.

“And who would you be, to be fitting of that spot?” he asked, articulating each words with dreadful stillness.

The redhead paused for a second, his brows flying up dramatically. To Jonathan’s utter surprise, a string of delighted laughs rolled out of him. He could not explain the gun-like ringing the sound left on him.

“Oh what WAS I thinking, manners manners....” He tutted idly. Rising up his fancy cane, he did a great show of pressing his hat to his heart and execute the most pretentiously elegant bow Jon had ever seen anyone do in real life. “You might have heard of me as Edward E. Nygma. Great benefactor of Gotham City and, must I humbly reveal to you, your greatest fan.”

The tall man’s hidden shock was replaced with revived annoyance.

“Charmed.”

“But you must remember me from a few weeks ago?” the exuberant man moved to sit in the empty spot in front of him. “Or perhaps not. I suppose your memory might starts to fail you, at your age. You do look quite younger when you perform.”

“I heard some fans like to picture me in my late 20s. I suggest you get to the point,” the contemporary dancer offered, unkindly.

“Ah yes, as you might remember I came to generously offer you my congratulations on that faithful Premiere a few weeks ago, only to be cast away. I’m sure you can only imagine the depth of my astonishment, that you would be so stiff toward any kind of positive feedback. One might call it quite foolish in this industry, or else it is pride that’s clouding your judgement..”

“And so you told yourself that if I didn’t wish to hear your feedback, the whole of Gotham would have to?

“Precisely!” he said with great emphasis, there was a strange spark in his eyes. “Oh I would have written that piece of paper regardless of you being present or not. But please, understand I do not offer compliments lightly, especially not in this review.”

“In your _reviews_.”

The critic barely flinched.

There had been a self-assured vivacity to his gestures. To the way he was leaning forward as he spoke or used his fancy cane to add weight to his words.

The shift was subtle, extremely subtle. All the well-practiced curve of a polite smile and the way his chin seemed to address the fact that this was possibly the silliest thing he had ever heard. The spark was still there though. If anything, Jonathan felt it only gotten brighter as the green-suited man shifted in his chair.

“Oh I am a regular writer for the gazette, if that is what you mean. Should I hope that I have finally bested your outrageous level of contempt?”

“I hardly see how it could be deemed outrageous. But I was not talking about the gazette,” Jon replied nonchalantly. 

“Were you not?”

The tall performer almost made a show of inspecting his nails. There were, admittedly, in pretty bad shape. “We both know you wrote about our show more than once in the past month. Up to four times at the very least, coincidentally one for each show we’ve performed so far.” Only then did he look up at the man sitting in front of him, bearing a charmingly patient smile. Practiced, careful, tantalizing.

“Oh? but I hardly think I’ve written my name on more than one of these so-called reviews.”

Jon noted, he was not denying it either. He looked at the taller man almost as if the thought was ridiculously entertaining to him. 

“You don’t need to, Edward E. Nygma. There are patterns and ways you wrote that cannot be hindered by simple monikers and posh-sounding aliases. Whether you can help yourself or not, you’ve left clues on every one of them. Some almost blatant, if you’d ask me. Which I would normally condone, if they weren’t compulsively written with the intent of masking your already admirable delivery. Again, unmistakable.”

Edward was looking at him with an expression he couldn’t quite classify with certitude. It looked like he was staring at the sun. And by that, Jon meant quite literally eyes squinted while denying the self-awareness that it would burn his retinas in the process. The smile, however, was barely self-contained, and crumpled into yet another set of delighted laughter. A little bewildered, perhaps, as the redhead swiftly rubbed his hand over his face. 

Jon didn’t quite know what to make of this, but said nothing until the man had calmed down a tad.

“Splendid, mister Crane! A little surgical to my tastes, but that’s probably part of your charm. I am buying you a drink, my friend.”

“I though that was already in effect with everyone, me included.”

“And would you deny me the grace of walking off my bafflement?”

“I would not deny you the grace of walking out altogether, if you felt the need to.”

His eyebrows flew upward for a second. Quickly assessing his words, the green-suited man gave him... well, Jon would qualify it as a ‘warm’ smile -he found himself staring- before pressing his hand over his on the table. Jon though about taking it back, but couldn’t quite process the action before the other spoke.

“I’ll be right back.” And left, cane in hand. This time the crowd didn’t seem to let him through just as easily, but with some effort, Jon finally spotted him, leaning against the bar. Comfortably engaging in a conversation with Jonathan’s colleagues as he waited for his order. 

He would text Harley on his way home, he told himself, as he stood to leave. 

And though he tried, the older man could not get the feeling of the younger man’s hand out of his head.

* * * * * *

Edward Nygma went home a few hours later.

Not that he had any more reasons to stay but, as per his agreement with the bartender, he had to stay at least long enough to assure the establishment that he was a man of his words- and to ultimately show the people here he was just as prestigious as he prides himself to be . He did not need _their_ approval no but........... a small part of him could not deny that it was helping him smooth over the disappointing mixed-bag of failure of the evening.

In his plans and possible outcomes of the evening, Edward knew all too well that there was a high possibility of Crane walking out on their interaction, and he had been prepared for most eventualities.

But this didn't make much sense, and that fact alone had irked him more than he liked to admit.

It was just how it was, he rationalized. Perhaps the older man had waited for any opportunity to escape since he saw him stepped amid the crowd. Perhaps Edward's reaction to the reveal had unsettled him. If that was the case, Edward could work with that as well.

But his hasty disappearance did not make sense. Not by the way Crane looked at him. Not by the way his eyes took him apart and read him like a book. Not by the way he never glanced away, aside once to look at his poorly-kept nails in an attempt to taunt a reaction out of him. 

It didn't make sense, how the lights in his eyes was just the same as when he was on the stage. As if personally out to get him. And he actually did. Which led Edward to think he was either told by someone or...... figured out his trail of clues all by himself, and had only waited for their next encounter to rub it in his face.

...... Or perhaps impress him.... That was a stretch but, who spent that much time reading about themselv- oh, right.

That night, sleep did not come easily to Edward, who tossed and turned from his restless thoughts, connecting dots and actions. 

A small corner of his mind hoped it was to impress him. Because if the dancing hadn't in the first place, that would have done it too.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I survive Firework-week. Somehow.
> 
> Also please assume everything I write was probably based on a song at some point of its creation. 60% of my ideas for this fic are literally from Saint Motel.


	4. Awry

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You would think that a man as prestigious as Edward Nygma would find something more worthwhile to do than bother the local security guards.

Edward liked to stick to a schedule. 

Liked. Preferred... Sometimes pretended- Practically speaking, it was the most efficient way to go around with his businesses and appointments. Get some work done, and then fill up the gaps with projects of his own, and impromptu visits to his friends if his mind had yet to find any satisfaction in such order and regularity.

Not that some of them actually had the capacity to entertain to begin with, but perhaps the humor was in their futile attempts to be. They were a little less friendly after each crushing failure, but Edward felt it kept them on their toes.

The evenings were usually not a problem: there were the shows he could get easily booked, way ahead of time. There were those less advertised ones he would find in his own spare time and schedule with the same diligence as the other ones. The soirees he would be invited to, of course, or the ones he would go entirely out of defiance. Although these, he told himself, were entirely because Gotham needed his crucial and enlightened insight. Sometimes someone just had to be the better person.

And who better than him?

It was a Thursday. As per their weekly agreement, he went to visit a friend who, by all means, was way too busy with his trade to allow Edward to stay any longer than he had today. Not that he would actually throw him out -although that happened once or trice for different matters- but they knew his creative behavior could be…… unpredictable, especially in the heights of his frenzied stress and orders to finish on time. 

Edward pitied him, sometimes. It was the busy season for everyone, especially him. But he couldn’t quite give as much a damn as he once did, ever since that unfortunate incident. A jar of glitter once fell over him and ruined a perfectly good suit. A good suit his friend had yet to repay, he had reminded him several times.

…….. Well. He didn’t exactly feel as resentful as he once did. The suit was now hanging onto a secured garment bag, deep down his closet. For inspiration, he told himself. Or revenge. Whichever came first. He was sure his theatrical friend would appreciate a personalized retelling of Die Fledermaus at his expense. Or not. In any case, Edward certainly liked to entertain the thought.

He had to admit, the effect of the glitter reminded him of his dancing days... but he tended not to dwell over them, if he could find anything else worthy of his time instead.

And so, he found himself with too much time on a Thursday, and conveniently enough, his friend’s workshop was located a short distance away from the Gotham Museum.

If he remembered correctly, there was one of those open-doors event today. Whatever their PR team had to do to somehow attract more people into its body. Oh of course, there were regular visitors going, but it was rarely packed enough for Edward to go by himself.

Why not by himself? Well…….. He had been the wrongly accused perpetrator of a few ‘disturbances’, the past couple of years. 

Not ‘wrongly’ as in mistaken, but he did not perceived them as disturbances. Nothing to actually get him arrested (especially since the director owed him a favor) but enough for him to be well-known among the guards. They were strictly instructed not to let him wander inside, if he was to walk up to the main door. Least he terrorizes more touring guides and rectified all their faulty educational monologues.

It had been ridiculously easy to simply remove his coat, tuck it under his arm and walk through the gates.

It was almost insultingly easy, and he would repeat the infiltration more often, if he had the time and bother to fool the same guards over and over again. But truth be told, Edward knew it would only bore him past the second time. Additionally, there were only so few staffs he could actually taunt until he was noticed.

He had perhaps a good half-hour before anyone would spot him, and hence he strolled casually toward the latest collections the museum somehow managed to acquire.

This had been perhaps his only mistake. He had considered the guards and their vacuous nonchalance, but not the guides. Their monotonous, semi-monitored behavior had him almost forget that they, too, remembered him. Edward unfortunately met the eyes of the past victim of an extensive rectification, and before they managed a double-check in his direction, he had stridden off to a different gallery.

But alas, he had been found. He made a great point not to show any signs of agitation, as it would be detrimental to the nature of his game.

He crossed path with two guards, who seemed unsure on how to approach him.

“Sir-”

He passed them, pretending he had not heard the security staff at all. They must had figured something was up, for the irrepressible grin on the critic’s face could hardly be innocuous.

The kicker had to be when Edward turned the corner, and stared directly at them as he vanished to another gallery.

He just had to. And he felt a malicious pleasure at the sound of their pursuit.

And that was how Edward had triggered a bizarre goose chase across the corridors of Gotham’s museum. Where no parties would actually run and everyone attempted to catch him without disturbing the many visitors and tourists, who were just minding their own business.

Although a flurry of scurrying guards still attracted a lot of attention.

Which made people seek out what or, in this case, who, they were mobilizing for.

And it would had lasted longer, if Edward hadn’t dashingly turned a corner too sharply, and collided into an unnamed visitor, knocking the breath out of him.

It was an exhilarating miracle they didn’t stumble over, and Edward only had the thrill of his escape in mind.

However, in the momentum of their impact, and before he could even react, the critic felt himself being caught, and lift. The same way someone would have when he was the first dancer of Gotham’s Royal Ballet company. Contractions, aligned balance-..

… Maybe. No. No it wasn’t a _porté_ , but his good leg almost did an _arabesque_ all the same. Almost.

Edward was stunned, to say the least, but his real shock only occurred when he finally took notice of whose arms he had crashed into.

And of all the people in Gotham, Edward had to fall on Jonathan Crane at the least favorable time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Local man makes a fool of himself.
> 
> No but this part I had in my draft for a little while. I like the next part better.


	5. Tour de force

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The enemy of my enemy is my friend, but as you might expect I'm not the best person to befriend in the first place.

If Edward had to be honest with himself, he felt incredibly absurd at his lack of response toward this… predicament. To anyone else, he would rather deny how he stood still, in quiet horror, as he slowly assessed what just happened– what was _happening_ at this very moment.

And somewhere in the back of his deplorably numb mind, he was sure that Crane was himself in a similar mindscape. For he, too, stood dead still. His arms hovering with uncertainty where he had caught the shorter man. 

Any other time, Edward would had jumped right back into his game, invigorated by his misfortune as the difficulties mounted.

But this was just an embarrassment.

Edward finally willed his neurons back into gears, looking at the object of his shock with as much dignity and anger as he could summon on such short notice, and he knew for a fact his indignation was always ready to kick when required.

This had been his second mistake today.

The reciprocated dismay he had expected to find was instead a deadpan grimace. It appeared to be torn between handing him over to whoever was chasing him or the disdainful regret of not launching him across the room like an Olympic weight while he had the opportunity to do so.

Oh no. Over his cold dead body.

Edward pulled out of the his lamentable grasp, falling right into character. Inhaling sharply, he had some readily prepared poison at the tip of his tongue when a stern voice arose behind him, deflecting his verbal onslaught.

“Sir, is this man troubling your visit?” an officer offered. Edward could picture at least half a dozen of them, idly waiting for Crane’s response. Huddling in anticipation to finally catch the troublesome man.

Edward cooled down his outrage, and considered his options.

He couldn’t pretend that he and Jonathan were friends, for the man could easily turn on him. Bribery could be an option, but in regards of their past interactions, it was unlikely to work on the man. So this plan was unlikely to succeed.

He could make a ruckus, but for how much he didn’t wish to lose, it felt like a rather barbaric solution to get his advantage back, and might tip the status quo on his record to something less..... favorable. Additionally, the guards knew he could make very convincing improvisations. It might work, if he found the right opportunity.

He awaited Jonathan’s reaction with a practiced neutrality. Defiant, but also eager to see what his next move would be.

_What will you do, Jonathan Crane?_

Crane had smoothed his contempt into an impersonal mask of his own as soon as he heard the guard speaking. He studied their ensemble with muted curiosity before addressing them.

“And what if I meant to say yes?”

Not a single muscle moved in Edward’s face, but his eyes sharpened significantly. .

“Well, we’ll escort him out and-”

Crane locked his sight on the unfortunate speaker behind Edward. Something in those ghastly eyes piqued the critic’s attention, the same way it had when they last met.

If Edward didn’t knew better, he’d say the man had cold, calculated murder on his mind.

“I’m having quite a grand time…” he began slowly, almost savoring each words. “… trying to picture what horrible, nefarious deed this obviously incapacitated man had done to mobilize the better part of the museum’s security on such a populous day.”

Edward rose a condescending brow at the man, breaking character to mouth the word ‘what’ at the seasoned ballet dancer. Jon’s slow, blinking eyes fell on him, graciously acknowledged his unheard question in stride, and nodded at his unmistakable cane.

Oh.

How did he….

“Sir, with all due respect, it is a confidential matter-”

There was the ghost of a laugh in his words, but each of them ought to have the sharpness of a scalpel.

“Oh I’m sure I could conjure up a few hypothesis of my own. Anyone familiar with this man could. But what I’m curious to know, officers, is how logical your reasoning is.” He paused, laying his left hand over his chest as his right arm rested behind his back. “In truth, you do not need to explain to me why this man is a menace, but I will question your logic: Could you rightfully justify your decision to forsake the safety of hundreds, thousands of priceless artifacts, irreplaceable fragments of our evolution, for the sake of capturing one sole man? Why,” he added with a wry smile. “you seem to forget it isn’t wise, nor responsible, to leave so many possible theft and hubris unattended on one of the Museum’s most crowded day. What would they say about you? What would you say if it cost you your job?” 

Edward did not move, but he felt the guardians’ shuffling feet. One of them broke from the group and clearly stalked out in a hurry.

There was something dreadfully incisive in the monotonous tone Jonathan Crane spoke with. Hypnotic, almost. It was incredibly fascinating to witness how his voice seemed to nullify any other sounds in the room.

Until there was only his quiet, implacable logic echoing in your head.

It felt as if time was standing still. Edward noticed, with some formidable interest, that many visitors had also stopped to observe the exchange.

“Sir-..” The same man spoke. Edward swore he could almost picture him worrying his bottom lip nervously. He had to catch himself as the thought occurred to him. “For the last time, is this man troubling your visit?” He didn’t begged, but something in his timbre seemed to battle a stronger instinct.

Jon gave a shrug, back to his deadpan soberness. “ You are standing in the Goya’s gallery,” he stated factually. “ I don’t think you will find any untroubled men, women or peculiar child wandering through these halls.”

Somewhere among the small crowd, one of the visitors actually broke into roaring laughter, which prompted a few quiet snickers and secretive smiles all around.

This must had hit the guard’s pride, who had begun to lose his patience before he even had one “For the last time-”

“Now come on, Gregory.” Edward finally spun around, leaning casually on his trademark cane. “Can’t you see there is no use questioning this man? I am only here to enjoy the displays and pretty excuses for tax evasions the Museum has to offer? As any visitors would genuinely enjoy? Why, my cutthroat friend here made a perfectly good point. Which begs the question,” he queried idly, pure smugness enveloping his words. “If you are standing here, hassling guests with meaningless evaluations of their visits, who is standing where you’ve been stationed to?” 

Unfolding his spindly arm, Jonathan settle his left hand on Edward shoulder. Edward resisted the urge to shove him off as the taller man leaned slightly toward his right ear. “Now you’re just rephrasing my previous questions shamelessly.”

Indignantly, turned to stare at the man severely. “I most certainly did not!”

“Of all your flatteries,” whispered just for him. “You only draw the line at Imitation, then?.”

Edward caught himself right before another show of his outrage, catching flickers of amusement in the taller man’s eyes.

There was something of a different smile dancing on his impassive face.

It made Edward’s blood run cold.

The guards vanished soon after that, not without ire, and the crowd returned to their tranquil motion through the different corridors.

Edward finally brushed Jonathan’s hand off his shoulder, and faced him with all the nobility he had earned through long, tedious years. “I suppose you want my gratitude,” he asked, evenly.

Jon did not answer, but observed him carefully. It was rather unnerving, but Edward would not be shaken so easily. He had been scrutinized too many times in his life to care about the opinion of a rude… Incredibly brilliant and rude individual.

“Let’s go sit down for now,” he finally said after a while, nodding at a nearby bench. “I’ll let you decide what it is you wish to issue on your own free time.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next part is a lot of dialogue, and I've been really looking forward to do that. Also some -some- explanations. 
> 
> Thank you so much for your supports. It really means a lot to me.
> 
> ps: If I was to make a oneshot AU about these two idiots entering a band competition -of sort- as enemy bands... How much cheesy snarkiness could I _possibly_ cram into a single story? Please help me, I already know the songs. I am suffering.


	6. One for sorrow

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Edward finally has a real conversation with the irritatingly evasive man he has tried to befriend for the past few weeks.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So this is possibly the longest thing I've wrote so far and I've been pulling my hair long enough over this chapter. It doesn't help that I've been overloaded with work the past 2 weeks and usually too grumpy to make sense of anything. There are bits I really love in there and more I don't know how to fix, so you guys just have this. 
> 
> Also dialogues are hard. I take everything back.

Edward watched the peculiar man stride casually toward the nearest seat. He did not move to follow right away, as he was still very disgruntled by the bizarre outcome of his game. “Oh now, don’t you think this spot might be taken as well?” he goaded, walking calmly into his field of vision. “I’m sure its occupant might just pop out of nowhere at any given time, unless you vanish entirely as soon as I turn my back.”

The bench was not meant for someone the likes of Jonathan Crane, and his legs bent at a somewhat ridiculous angle. Nonetheless, the older man leaned backward, his chin naturally rising to scrutinize Edward from this new angle.

“And what if I told you I am infinitely more likely to stay for this conversation than whatever you tried to initiate at the party last week?”

“Interesting. And what if I just walked out? I have other things to do, you know.”

“Like disturb an entire fleet of security guards for your own entertainment?”

The man in green almost sneered, ignoring the snide accusation entirely. “A lot of ‘what if’s’, Mister Crane.”

“And you seem only interested in things that flatters your endless need for attention, Mister Nashton.”

Edward let out a humorless exclamation. “Great job! You found a basic wikipedia page, like any fool who can type a name. An unprecedented feat!” Edward’s eyes fell into a familiar edge, a steely smile tagging along. “Mister Nashton was my father, that much is true. But I’d advise you to stick to the patronym I’ve built for myself, if you truly wish to continue this impromptu _tête-à-tête_.”

There was a silence as both men sized each other quietly. For some impossible reason, Crane extended one hand. An offering. Or a challenge.

“Pleased to meet you then, Edward Nygma.”

There some something remarkably solemn in the gesture, which unsettled Edward more than he liked to admit. Or perhaps it was just something about the man himself that seemed to throw him off his feet. 

The redhead shook his hand with the lingering impression that a bomb had been defused. He subconsciously registered the callousness of it, how lengthy the digits were. Practically dry twigs, really... He felt how he did not try to overdue or crush, but gave a visible effort to meet him with a semblance of reciprocity. 

He should be paying attention to the matters afoot, not the way he was holding his hand. Not the way his own lingered for just too long. A tactile distraction, predictably. He took his hand back eventually, refusing to acknowledge he had committed to memory the brief exchange.

He tried to shrug off the feeling vehemently. 

Now what?

“So,” Edward began, strolling to take the seat next to his lanky interlocutor. He did not lose a second to make himself comfortable, gazing up at him with curiosity. He had to regain control of the conversation after all. “It appears I’m finally worth your time. This is quite a turn of event,” he muttered with some bitterness, although he was a lot more agreeable than earlier.

“I suppose your stupefaction is not uncalled-for,“ the tall man pointed soberly. 

“Stupefaction is a rather heavy word,” Edward scoffed

Crane detached his gaze from the distant figure of a guard lurking at them, irking a brow as he turned to face him. “Barging into someone unexpectedly tends to do that to people. You looked-” he added quickly, cutting Edward just as he was about to argue further. “-... spooked,” the man said. Edward was distracted for just a second as the other man... almost smiled at the word.

“... I had more pressing things in mind,” Edward conceded, then added more to himself than his companion. “I was not expecting you to play along without being prompted. You seem much more bent on rising my indignation. What would another affront be to diminish my generous initiatives to befriend you?” 

“Generous?” Edward did not see, but practically felt Jonathan’s eye twitch at the word. “And what would be the point of befriending me, exactly?” he said, his tone lowering grimly. 

Edward did his best not to appear petulant, least that gave any satisfaction to the man beside him. He crossed his legs elegantly, playing a thumb over the custom-made handle under his palm, looking bored and bitter. “There’s none, evidently. And I’m not sure why I bothered.”

“You sound very resentful. Which is understandable for someone who wrote a total of 5 articles about me.”

Edward turned his head sharply and stared at the man, who gave him the slightest hint of teeth. 

Oh, he was rubbing it in his face now. He narrowed his eyes at the man, not adding any incriminating comments. 

“... You’re a lot more interesting when you’re not trying to impress me, or potential bystanders...” Jon added, almost as an after-thought. Edward shot a brow at him despite himself. “And, I had meant to speak with you, sooner or later.”

The man in green did not answer right away, reminding himself not to underestimate the strange man that was Jonathan Crane. His fingers were tracing the gilded curl of his cane. “More later than sooner, really.”

“You need to stop writing those articles.”

Edward did not utter a word, but his head perked in an inquisitive way, blinking away the absurdity of what he just heard. 

Jonathan seemed prepared for this reaction (or just... prepared), as the words came forth smoothly. Practiced. Factual. 

“I understand you only answer to your questionably better judgment. However beneficial it is to me that you would showcase my acts, it has put a lot of pressure on my fellow colleagues. You might be familiar with in-company frictions, considering your background-” 

“You wish for me to cease so your fellow mates wouldn’t feel wounded by my lack of interest for their negligible performances?” 

A sharp flicker went through the tall man’s eyes, but it was quick to fade back into his stoical front, with an added rictus. 

“As meaningless as some of them might prove to be to my long-term ambitions, it is not advantageous to have them actively resent me for something I have no control over. That is, unless I regain said control, which I’m attempting to do as we speak. I trust you can understand the simplest logic of this?”

“Perhaps I understand that you are missing greater opportunities, and grow ever more peeved as I see the _control_ you have over your art, over your _audience_ , and it is _wasted_ for the sake of a lesser group of amateurs!” He shook his head, his hands fidgeting to the flow of his words. “You see, what I do not _understand_ is why you cannot simply step out and embrace your full potential, may those reasons be personal or otherwise. It is _bewildering_ to me that you would sacrifice prestige and remain at this level, among hobbyists for crying shame. I’m baffled you can even make a living out of it when you clearly deserve better.” 

“... Understandable, coming from someone who has never had to face the difficulties found on the market.” He practically gritted his teeth.

“Difficulties? I had to work long and hard to fullfill my potential and outclass all my peers. Although, that last past was not as tenuous as it sounds. Shouldn’t you be _aware_ of that, since you seem to know extensively about my whereabouts?”

Crane’s unsettling gaze was locked on him, his head tilted with a slow, unnerving eeriness. “Tell me, Mr. Nygma. How did that isolated pedestal of fame felt, when you fell from it?”

How indeed.

Edward sucked in a breath as the question rang in his ears for what seemed like eons, the insidious inquiry hitting home harder than any other variation had in the past. 

He inhaled sharply, and let another scoff subdue his surprise, bouncing his cane rhythmically.

“Ah, well! It seems like I’ve had quite enough of this debilitating conversation. I will consider your ungrateful request at my own discretion.”

Jon’s stare had not changed. It was starting to give him goosebumps. “You’re just going to continue writing these under the guise of anonymity?” he rose an unimpressed brow, shading even more ridicule over the situation. 

Edward have had quite enough, and was set to take his leave. “Oh I’m sure you can figure it out by yourself, since you don’t seem to need any assistance antagonizing me.”

“Fascinating. What a desperately bored little man you are.” 

The critic was excruciatingly aware of his inquisitive gaze on him. He tried to ignore the slight twitching of his leg.

“You may want to wait a while longer before you make your dramatic exit,” the older man remarked.

“I’m doing just _peachy_ , thank you very much.”

“Whatever you did to those guards, I’m sure they’ll be more than obliged to escort you out, if they happened see you on your own again. Wouldn’t that go against the purpose of your ‘game’? ”

“It’s a risk I’m willing to take. Their company appeals to me more than yours right now.”

“Interesting,” Jonathan echoed. Edward spared him one last contemptuous glare before moving to rise. However stopped as Crane’s next words dug into his skull.

“I will tell you something you wish to know, if you choose to stay and listen,” the dancer offered quietly. 

The man in green frowned deeply, already fed up past his normal point.

However...

“And what, pray tell, might interest me enough to indulge someone who clearly does not respect my worth, nor theirs?”

The taller man was clearly refraining from rolling his eyes, but he gestured at the seat with a roll of the wrist, his long slender fingers adding a whirl to the motion.

"Something you wish to know, and something I meant to say.”

He was acting in a cryptic way to entice his curiosity, Edward realized with irritation. The redhead had the rampant impression the man knew him better than expected, and the fact that he did not match his knowledge in return was driving him up the walls.

Still, he did not obliged just yet, standing with his righteous pride, albeit leaning slightly over his trademark cane. The spams of his leg royally ignored.

“Have you not already told me what you intended to say earlier?”

Jonathan shook his head and looked away for a second, before returning to him. 

“Preferably, I do not drink at parties.”

Edward did not move, but his eyes were dissecting him intently. He did not give him any indicative to proceed, but a tilt of his own.

“Preferably. There’s a great variety of things I’d rather do than sit at an event, waiting for the hours to tick by. I only complied because I gave my words to Ms Quinzel, and because I’m aware those events are worth attending to, sociologically speaking.” 

Jonathan continued calmly, staring at the painting on the opposite wall. 

“This company is meant to function on a very... should I say, ‘organic’ model, and tends to suffer when an individual outshines the others-”

“No, it Isn’t?” Edward interjected. “It’s clearly meant to emphasize on-”

“ _-Unless_ ,” he continued, bored of this rambling. “-that person is Ms. Isley, but to be fair, she is the co-founder of the troupe and she takes the mantle with a lot of pride. Whoever has a problem with that can answer to her, or more likely, to her equally driven partner.”

“Ah yes. The Harlequin of Gotham, good old Harleen. We used to be rival back then, before... Well.” Edward caught himself, hesitating. His fingers drummed. Jonathan seemed more than ready to see a flaw in his words, and so he picked them carefully.. “Before she had to deal with her predicaments.” 

The older man’s face could best be described as unmoved, although the same glint as earlier shone starkly once more. 

“...I suppose, she outgrew them better than most would had given her credit for,” Edward conceded cautiously. His respect toward Quinzel had never been a secret. Not that he would normally bother explaining himself.

Crane kept studying him for a spell, before a pale nod seemed to show he agreed with the sentiment.

“At this point I’m waiting to see if there’s anything she _can’t_ do out of sheer stubbornness, but I digress...” 

The ghost of a smile crossed Jonathan’s features. “The fact that Isley has been increasingly bitter about your residual opinion of the company is- frankly more entertaining than it ought to be.” The tall man admitted, Edward had to fight down the urge to ask for more details, as he and Pamela have had more than a few ‘aesthetic’ disagreements over the past years.

“However, with the rising tensions regarding my perplexing popularity, it was strategic to attend the event and passively demonstrate that I am one of them, as I normally never do. Even if I am not one for drinking myself into a stupor...” He trailed off, his face slowly showing his reminiscing exasperation. “Still, I was not expecting you to make an appearance. And to make things worse, attempt to temper an angry crowd by flaunting an unlimited tab at it...” The tall man trailed off, shaking his head. Muttering something about foolishness and ridicule waste.

Edward furrowed his brows, practically sneering. “Is that all? I fouled your plans to appear approachable and sym- _pathetic_?”

“Well. The point being. Accepting a drink from you would have put me in an irksome position. Again. And I’ve had quite enough of these people long before you arrived. You just gave me an excuse to leave.”

Jonathan seemed to ponder over something as he seemed to end his reasoning. He eventually glanced at Edward, who had been observed him the entire time.

“... Was that what you meant to say, or what you presumed I wished to know? Because your explanation of the setting does not explain your initial statement. Fine. Not a fan of drinks. That is not a problem in the slightest. But your logic seemed to be fueled either by social paranoia or-”

“I have given you enough information,” Jon interjected coldly, almost menacing. “ I do not need to justify to you, or anyone, my motivations. As confusing as they might appear to be from your obtuse perspective.” 

Edward’s mouth snapped shut, clicking his tongue as he processed the information. Finally, he rose his eyes to him again, a shrewd line of thoughts falling into place.

“Very well, then. There is... A question I would like to ask. I will bother you no longer if you wish for it afterward.”

Edward paused, refraining from biting his lips, and leaned closer so his eyes could meet Crane’s again. His free hand systematically drawn over his heart for dramatic effect.

“Had we met under different circumstances, would you had refused my invitation? If it had only been the two of us, no peers, no expectations, none of our respective... _facades_ getting in the way?”

Crane bore his eyes into him for what seemed like an eternity, something sharp drawing into his features for a splint second. Edward’s entire posture and mind were galvanized on seeking his answer out of him, and he was particularly good at cracking the toughest shells, when he put his mind to it.

The tall man finally sighed, frowning deeply, and turned himself back to face the wall ahead. 

“Perhaps it had crossed my mind.”

The silence that followed was one of sweet, delightful victory for Edward. The other man was still visibly churning over something unsaid, but in the immediate, the man in green could not seem to care any less. 

That wasn’t quite true, but he had other things to worry about.

Like the fact that this scene was taking place in the Goya Gallery, for crying shame. 

“Were you planning to spend the afternoon at the Museum?” he tentatively asked. Crane turned a stoical face to him.

“It _had_ been my intention,” he admitted, raising a brow. “Were you planning to outrun the Security the whole afternoon?”

“Oh it had been my intention, quite indeed,” Edward grinned slyly. He knew it was a charming thing. “Alas, I do not get to see these walls as often as I used to.”

“I reckon it’s a little hard when you’re being chased.”

“That’s only part of the fun, really.”

Crane gave him a particularly unimpressed look. However, his mood was too bright to be sullen by it.

“Very well, allow me to propose an arrangement of sorts.”

“An Arrangement?” Crane echoed, flatly.

“Oh, must you sound so cynical?” 

“And let you have your way?”

Edward found himself laughing. The genuine sound of it must had reached Jonathan as well, as Edward was almost certain he saw the man fight down the bud of a smile.

* * * * * * * *

In his small apartment's bathroom, Jonathan Crane stared himself in the mirror. 

He was not a vain man, but the enclosed space and the soft glow would find him examining the content of his day as he performed various task of self-care, which were applied quickly and methodically.

There was something in the way the light over the cabinet would invite him into a meditative state, giving the room an almost ethereal atmosphere.

Or, perhaps it was just a really shitty lightbulb, but the aesthetic of it was appealing nonetheless. Still, Jon reckoned he might need to invest into that soon, for how the current one had began to flicker sporadically.

Ah well. It still worked fine. He had better things to worry about.

Which brought him back to the events of the day. 

His reflection irked a brow back at him.

His plan had been simple, and direct. 

Although he did not knew when his next encounter with the critic would occur, he had, in fact, been prepared for it. And it should had been as simple as that.

Oh, he did not feel bad for leaving him behind the other week. That was entirely on him... Well, mostly on him. A lot of blame could easy fall onto the man, if Jonathan wasn’t as self-aware of his own flaws. He was still an insufferable pain in the neck, but that wasn’t the point.

Jon lost visual contact with his reflection as he dried his hair with a towel. It was an old raggedy orange thing, with patterns on it. He had sewed the borders a few times now, although they never seemed to stop tearing themselves apart. 

He had figured meeting the man would only be reasonable. To make things clear and leave it all behind. It had been simple. It shouldn’t had been... more. More than that. Had he not stopped him when he rose to leave, it would had been over by now.

So why had he stopped him?

The towel lowered, Jonathan met his reflection’s gaze. It knew why, and that made him particularly resentful of it. 

“This could had gone better,” he mumbled tiredly, gathering his toothbrush and paste.

_And it could get a lot better too_ , his reflection blinked at him. The eyes narrowed as they hung onto that thought, his toothbrush hanging unceremoniously as he stood still. 

The seconds fell and stretched as a scheme began to take form.

It would be exhaustive but.... how much of a payoff would that be?

Perhaps there would be none. Or perhaps it would be worth every second of the past 6 years...

“... Quite a turn of event,” Jonathan echoed in a murmur, the staggering beauty of it all dawning on him like the blue hour over dew.

He brewed over the thought, until the sound of angry rattlings came from the bathroom’s door. It was a particularly startling sound, but Jon knew all too well who was making such a noise, and quickly strode to open the door, looking at the floor below.

A very excited magpie was chattering up at him.

“Young man, I’ll have to get you a better cage if you keep escaping your bedtime, and we both know that’s not something you want.”

The corvid payed the threat no mind and rolled onto his back in a clear attempt at bribing his way out of trouble. His little feet swatted the air as he produced a louder screech, getting back up with a querulous ruffle of feathers.

Jon stared thoroughly unimpressed at his second pet bird, eventually crouching down. “There we are, Craw. You’ll have to get proper rest if you want to get better. I can’t give you belly rubs if you keep falling off your perch to come and see how I’m doing.”

The bird gave a particularly indignant squawk. Jon shook his head, chuckling to himself.

He placed his hand near the ground, where Craw hastily hopped on shamelessly, seeming more than pleased with himself.

“ _One for sorrow_ , my darling,” he cooed ominously, carrying the bird with him to the living room.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Quick note that I'm going to be BUSY-BUSY next week and after so if you see me post something else you are fully allowed to squawk loudly at me because I got two auditions to prepare and one potentially-cold larping weekend in between so hopefully I'm going to be fine.
> 
> (now I gotta go to work god dammit, Labor day be damned thanks boss)
> 
> I love and adore you all <3


	7. Autumn's leaves

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You wouldn’t think a city of grey such as Gotham would take cues from anything other than its own racing heartbeat.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I meant to post something at least before the end of October. It's more of an introspective one really.

Autumn had come again. Jon will soon have seen 45 of them, but very few could be compared to Gotham in the midst Falls. 

The days too windy to be warm, despite the persistent sunlight. The nights subjects to drastic drops, chilling you to the core as a reminder of the colder times to come.

You wouldn’t think a city of grey such as Gotham would take cues from anything other than its own racing heartbeat. And yet, storefronts flung their enthusiasm for the holidays with a passion entirely meant to upstaged one another, and lure more costumers into their businesses. Flavoured treats and likewise trends had become perhaps one of the most ridiculous and iconic part of the modern consumers’ delight... However, if it was fair to say those overpriced and utter cons were not worth half the price they were sold for, Jon still find himself occasionally indulging in the purchase of something as despicable as a pumpkin-spiced beverage, and grumbled about the brew’s mediocrity through every sip.

He regretted it every time, and still indulged in one approximately once a week, when he was most certain nobody he knew would hover around to question the hypocrisy of his tastes.

We all have our ways to celebrate the season. Sometimes you could find symbolism in the form of warming yourself to a drink that tasted like cheap candles and bad decisions. 

It was nearly noon. The outdoor smelled sharply of vegetating death and nostalgia, as slivers of cold were clinging to Jonathan’s legs as he was hurrying to his destination. Nothing unusual for the east coast, nothing more than leaves deteriorating under his shoes as he crossed the occasional establishments playing seasonal music. 

He only slowed his pace once as he heard the familiar notes of “autumn leaves” carried from a distant corner. And doubled his speed with a huff as someone was erroneously playing what was definitively a Christmas carol on their radio. 

A scarf was wrapped around his neck, warm and soft against the gruff of his jaw. A worn coat hiding all but the thinness of his spidery legs as he marched forward in technicolor streets. 

He had meant to get up earlier that day, and realized too late that his morning routine would not fit with the remaining time left before his allowed practice time at the studio. He had taken cared of the birds, the rest was.... Well. He would have to do without. He’ll grab something on his way. 

He loathed the dullness of his limbs on cold mornings like these, how it nestled deep down his bones. He burrowed his big nose further in the warm layers around his neck, gritting his teeth as a breeze shook through him. 

More leaves met their fate under his steps. He found himself contemplating the perplexing situation he had gotten into ever since the day he made his... “arrangement” with the insufferably brilliant Nygma.

Jon’s scoffed as he slipped the compliment. The man was a fool at best. A knowledgeable fool, that much was true. Who had little to no consideration for the opinion of others and sought an acclaiming audience in whoever he engaged with... 

However Jon had to admit, even he was surprised how easily he had fallen into conversations with him, as they had settled on meeting regularly ever since that day at the museum. 

Through the little conversations they had, Nygma had deducted acutely how Jonathan's reserve for cultural events was more due to his financial situation rather than a lack of interest. A “deduction” made even more blatant on the evidence that Jon preferred to assist free-admission events, instead of any others where one would have to pay the full admission fee to listen to some boiled down trinkets of information such as with the museum. 

Edward had been quick to put his conclusions into light, with a smug, satisfied grin. Although, from the look Jon bored into him as he had uttered his logic, the redhead had been.... smart enough as to not insist on it. Possibly the smartest thing he had done since they had properly met.

For reasons of his own, the financial side of the matter seemed downright perplexing to the connoisseur of arts, outrageous even. Hence he had been adamant on inviting Jon any chances he had, as ‘a token of his appreciation’, he had told him. 

That last bit made Jon frown quite a bit. The other man took notice of the silence and rolled his eyes dramatically, raising his hands. Admitting he’d rather not go by himself, least he died of boredom. Or worse, instill mayhem as a way to stay entertained. To which Jon replied with something that resembled a smirk, allowing the excuse for the time being. 

Like he hadn’t seen the slight twitch of his eyes, the way his dramatics increased as he explained the logic behind his invitations, or even the faintest blush brushing over his face as he spun on his heels, marching forward ahead and away from him.

Foolish man.

... Or maybe not foolish. Perhaps he intended for Jon to have a good look at what used to make the city turn on its head, a good decade ago. He wouldn’t put it past his personality. 

... And whether it had worked or not shouldn’t be the focus of Jonathan’s thoughts at the moment.

The fact that Edward had gotten through his wariness so swiftly was also more alarming than Crane liked to admit. And more so was how sharply attuned the other man was regarding the kind of events that might get his interest. It was almost thoughtful, really. Most likely a strategic choice to insured Jonathan agreed to tag along.

_"Had you considered public heckling before? I’m sure you’d meet quite a few equally opinionated people that way.”_

_His practiced laugh was just shy from condescending. “Having a strong opinion comes with an emotional bias. I, myself, am only true to the art itself... Besides, try initiating a debate with an angry mob. Why do you think my name goes through the rotating doors of temporary banning so regularly?” he twirled his cane swiftly, amused by a fleeting thought._

_“You sound like you’ve had one too many altercations with prime-membership patrons in suits and pearls.”_

__

“...I was advised that journalism was a much more... civilized platform to argue on, which I only partially agree with but... It has the benefit of involving a lot less octogenarians meaning to have a few strong words with me on a regular basis.”

__

_“Your bravery shows no match.”_

One day, as they awaited in line to order something on the go, Jonathan was compelled to taunt Edward when an idle silence settled between them, the thoughts pulled a smirk on his dried lips. He almost imagined a shiver go through Edward as the critic turned to look at him with suspicious eyes.

_“I’m beginning to think you invite me to these events as your seasonal arm candy.”_

__

Jon took notice of the quick shift in his green eyes. “Oh, you wished,” Edward scoffed, meeting his amused gaze with aplomb. “If I wanted a mere arm candy to accompany me, I would be ringing up Bruce Wayne every other day.”  
Nonetheless, Jon saw the tips of his ears going through a few shades of red. 

Jon felt his lips take a sharper edge, tilting his head slightly. “Are you implying you have more esteem for me than for billionaire playboy Bruce Wayne?”

“He’s not that great,” Edward grumble, taking a step further in the line, and ignoring the question. 

"Does it have anything to do with that faithful incident at Gotham’s Winter Gala, back when he outshined you on the dance-floor?”

Edward spun on his heels so quickly, Jon nearly took a step back. “He has never outshined me, Crane,” he retorted vehemently, spinning back the other way with his head high and most definitively trying to pace himself. “The man can barely hold a conversation with someone of **my** calibre, and yet the gossip magazines assumed that our dance was meant as a duel of some kind. Ridiculous!”

“I reckon it’s not easy to give up the spotlight when it was made for you.”

Edward closed his mouth with an audible snap, somehow exchanging the rest of his rant for thoughts of a different kind, To say his reaction wasn’t... fascinating to Jon would be a lie. Especially with the colors his ears took as the redhead stared stubbornly at the menu, hands on his hips. As if he was considering anything other than his usual hot chocolate.

Jonathan knew he was indulging himself. This was not how he had planned to behave around the man..... and yet.

Alas, the tall man leaned down, mere inches from the burning ear.

“Of course,” he added, soothing. “I was talking about Bruce Wayne.”

Time stood still for a spell, Jonathan barely containing the crooked grin from spreading across his lips. Not that the man in front of him could see.

_“And here I was, about to buy you a coffee.” Edward shook his head, still refusing to give him as little as a glare. “You buy your own coffee, Jonathan Crane.”_

Jon did not expect the dark chuckle in his guts to come out as delighted as it did when the man finally turned to look at him. Or how dignified Edward strode to wait outside once he was given his order.

Admittedly, everyone in the shop seemed to avoid him afterward as well. Jon was almost pleased at his effect on them. That thought alone warmed him up significantly.

... But perhaps not as much as the memory of finding him, still waiting outside, wrapped in his own layers of greens and purple scarves. 

… Maybe Jon was the only one to blame for allowing him past his first barriers. It was a dangerous game he was playing, he knew that much. 

Ah well. 

There was something fascinating about him, and he did not expect to look forward to their next meeting. 

While it lasts.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tbh. "Autmun's leaves is one of my favorite "nostalgic" song. You could probably find me singing the original french version on my way home at 1-3am if the weather is just right...
> 
> thank you for reading, I'm really fond of this chapter. <3<3<3


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